A Wound that Love Opened
by ms metaphor
Summary: “She wants a cucumber sandwiches today. It’s a quirk of hers. She eats them several times a week.” SiriusLily, Part Two of “The Heart’s Progress”, a series of vignettes based on the poetry of Pablo Neruda. Also a companion to Part One, “The Last Autumn.”


_**A Wound that Love Opened**_

by ms. metaphor

**Rating:** G

**Pairing:** Sirius/Lily

**Genre:** Romance/Angst

**Summary:** "She wants a cucumber sandwiches today. It's a quirk of hers. She eats them several times a week." Part Two of **_The Heart's Progress,_** a series of vignettes based on the poetry of Pablo Neruda. Also a companion to Part One, _The Last Autumn._

**Disclaimer**: I don't own Sirius or Lily. They belong to J. K. Rowling, along with everything else of _Harry Potter _canon. And no, I'm not making any money here. Title and excerpts taken from Sonnet VII, by Pablo Neruda.

* * *

Come with me_, I said, and no one knew_

_Where, or how my pain throbbed,_

_No carnations or barcaroles for me,_

_Only a wound that love opened.__

* * *

_

She wants a cucumber sandwiches today. It's a quirk of hers. She eats them several times a week.

James treats her to lunch every Thursday, usually in London and a walkable distance from the Ministry. She offered to make up a picnic basket for today, so they could meet in the park. She told him she didn't mind the autumn chill. But James insisted on this bistro because, he said, they serve the best turkey-squash soup in all of Britain.

She prods the squash around her bowl. Maybe she'll make a sandwich for dinner. Or curried chicken if Sirius drops in, because the last time she made it, he did all the dishes while composing love sonnets on her cooking. She kept finding them on scraps of paper beneath her pillow, bidding her goodnight for the next two weeks.

That made her laugh forever, she remembers. She laughs a great deal around Sirius, especially when he pops in unexpected—that is, unexpected to both of them. He drops by a few times a week on a whim, just because he feels like it. Just because he wants to, and at the oddest times. He is not a morning person (he's known to break alarm clocks, or hex them if he's coherent enough), but on one occasion, he woke her at six am. He whipped up chocolate-chip pancakes and bacon, served her breakfast in bed. She was so surprised she cried. With a full mouth and a smirk, he asked if his pancakes were really that bad.

James does not surprise her. They go on dates, because that is what James likes. Restaurants, picnics, dancing, plays, hiking, bowling, concerts, Quidditch matches, art galleries. He plans out very nice evenings or day trips. Dates. They rarely do nothing together, and even more rarely do something impulsive.

But she must give him credit: he wants more than anything to make her happy.

This train of thought is disturbing her. She quells it. Lunch is almost over, but she just can't stand this awful soup. She apologizes for having to go early and leaves, but not before offering him a chaste kiss. James beams at her. He's a good man, she remembers. "A keeper," everyone says.

It is slightly cold as she walks. There's a sharp wind she hadn't expected, which confirms that summer is sadly gone. She avoids a puddle and pile of damp leaves at the entrance of a deserted alley. This will do fine, she decides. So, with a pop, she Apparates back to the Hollow, the spot behind the broad, squatty maple where no one will see her.

She scurries inside, eager to thaw. A flick of her wand, and her cloak is hung, her purse stashed. She checks her hair in the mirror. Thankfully, there's only minor wind-damage.

It feels wonderful to be home, but—

Male hands. They seize her shoulders, then fill her sight. Of course. She can't help herself: she inhales. He smells of the wind and leather and oatmeal. He uses oatmeal-scented soap, she remembers.

"Oh, Sirius, stop it. I know it's you!"

He barks with laughter and gives her one of two steaming cups. A sweet whorl of pleasure in her stomach.

He made her tea.

She sips the steaming mug. Yes, white tea with lots of honey. It melts her insides. That is, the tea and the fact that he made it—made it just right. Meeting his big, brown eyes, she smiles as brilliantly as she can. He gives her joy, in the things he does and in simply who he is.

She thinks, still watching him, that James would also make her tea. But, he would not make it intentionally, trying to steep it as long as she does and get it the right sweetness. He probably doesn't know how she likes it. Most importantly, he would not offer it as a gift. And that is what Sirius does, with this cup of tea and most everything else he does for her.

"Hey, love. Are you free for a chat?"

One hand on her elbow, he guides her to the chair. She wonders if he'll ask where she was. He doesn't know about their Thursday lunches, because she hasn't told him. She feels horribly guilty. Which makes no sense at all, since James her fiancé. Sirius is only her friend.

"Lily—"

"I don't know what to say." She cuts him off because she is afraid.

He replies exactly as she wants him to, exactly as she feared he would. "You don't have to say anything."

She shuts her eyes against the room and especially against him. It hurts to look at him, and she's tired of hurting.

The words are jammed in her throat. She heaves them out with great effort. "You don't deserve this."

"So?"

"So? So why is it James and not you? Do you know? Because I don't. I don't and I wish I did. And I keep—I keep… I keep asking myself and I just. don't. know."

He turns away. A sleek, black lock falls in his eyes. She wants to touch his face, to brush the strands away and ease the hard lines of his jaw.

"I wouldn't change a thing, love." A beat. She gives him a look. "Okay, okay. Maybe some things. I'd like to be the one that gets the girl."

The vice in her throat tightens. "I'm sorry."

He's very still, calm, and meets her eyes directly. "Don't be sorry."

She understands he really, absolutely means it. This gift unravels her.

"I know. But I am. You—you mean the world to me. You know that. You know what you are to me? You're fast motorbike rides and dangerous flying lessons and private talks at two am and silly love sonnets under my pillow and doing stupid, drunken things together and kisses in the rain… But you're—you're not the boy a girl brings home to her parents. Or the one she marries and has babies with and grows old with."

"And James is."

A moment while she collects herself.

"I had to choose. One day I had to choose. It just got harder every day I waited. So I just… made my choice."

So she didn't wait. James asked first; she said yes. Besides, Sirius would never pursue her. He loved James too much—more than himself, more than her. Maybe. And she would never. ever. ask him to choose between them. Anyhow, that was irrelevant, because Sirius had already chosen.

"More tea?"

She shakes her head.

She watches him gather his things. He kisses her softly on the cheek. Stay, she nearly begs, but she knows he can't. Furthermore, he won't.

"Sirius—"

He stops. In every contour, arc, angle of his body, there is tension that speaks of pain. He is so handsome, she thinks. Hair like midnight; eyes of molten chocolate; sharp, well-formed features.

It doesn't matter that he's about to leave. She'll need him anyway.

"Sirius, I want you to know, even when I have James and—and marriage and babies and growing old to do, that doesn't mean… I'll still need those other things too… motorbikes rides that scare me and drunken silliness and flying tricks and late night talks and those stupid sonnets…"

_And kisses in the rain._

"Then you'll have it, love. Whatever you need." His eyes burn with unspoken things.

He practically flees. A jet of cool air cuts through her robes. The door bangs shut. She sits, stock-still, while the minutes tick by.

When her breath returns, she realizes she's hungry. The squash soup was not at all satisfying, and lunch feels so very long ago. A growl from her stomach confirms this. She loafs about the kitchen. Unconsciously, she gets out all the ingredients to eight different recipes. She stares at them. Sits down, head in hands. At last, she puts them all away.

Her mind's made up. She makes herself a cucumber sandwich.

_

* * *

_

_That is why, when I heard your voice repeat _

Come with me_, it was as if you had let loose _

_the grief, the love, the fury of a cork-trapped wine_ . . .

_that geysers flooding from the deep in its vault: _

_in my mouth I felt the taste of fire again, _

_of blood and carnations, of rock and scald.__

* * *

_

**Finis**


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